The Cup of Trembling
by Yxonomei
Summary: [shounen ai, RikuSora, disturbing content] Hell is a slowly unraveling mind and a world that never changes.


**Warnings:** Slash/Shounen ai, AU, angst, non-graphic self-mutilation, dark themes

**Pairings:** Riku/Sora

**Rating:** PG-13

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Square Enix, Disney, et al.

**Summary:** Hell is a slowly unraveling mind and a world that never changes.

A/N: Fic request by Serenity Denied – "a fic featuring Riku in Ansem's body with Sora." Furthermore, this fic is deliberately confusing, and the loss of coherency as it progresses reflects the decline of the main character's own mental state; however, this author has complete confidence in her readers' quick minds!

A/N: Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that she hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing her upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

* * *

:The Cup of Trembling:

* * *

He stands at the meeting of land and sea, where the undisturbed sand folds seamlessly into the unruffled water, and watches the motionless, undisturbed landscape, the uniformly leaden sky. The sands do not shift beneath his shoes. The sea does not bear witness to his trespass. He yells, but the air remains still and dead, and his voice fades into nothing as soon as breath passes his lips. 

Everything here is damp, but never wet or dry, or cold or hot. Not the water. Not the earth.

Not quite land or sea or sky. Close. Almost. But not.

What is this place? Why is he here?

He glances over his shoulder at the dark figure who stands behind him and casts no shadow.

* * *

There is neither sun nor moon; there are no stars—just flat leaden gray. Yet, for the lack of those, there is still light without source, as if every dull object has been endowed with its own bleeding phosphorescence. 

Does time exist without a sun to separate day from night? Does it still progress? Or does it just remain as motionless as everything else?

He closes his eyes and it is dark. He opens them and he can see—see everything unchanged, everything still and silent. He squeezes his eyes closed again, fingernails bite into his palms as he clenches his fists, and wishes. Please be different. Please change!

Water should move with currents, its surface ruffled into whitecaps by the wind. The loose, damp sand should hold the imprints of his feet.

They should, but they don't. Why? Why? Oh God, why?

The dark figure follows as he wanders down the salt-pepper beach.

* * *

He runs, legs pumping, breath hissing between his teeth, feet slapping the sand, heart beating, wild and desperate. The scenery never changes. The same smoothness, the same unmarked stretch of beach that ends at water no matter which way he sets off. Has he crossed here already? Never? Is this place as infinitely expansive as it is miniscule? 

Nothing is different no matter where he runs.

The beach. The water. The sky. Him. The dark figure.

* * *

"Change. Change. Change," he says, digging his fingers into the cool, damp sand, feeling the grit pile up under his fingernails, feeling the nails begin to bend back and break. Quick little slices of pain, but they don't matter. Can't matter. Because… Because… 

Because, no matter how much sand he scoops out, more falls in, filling up the holes as fast as he makes them, erasing the evidence of his presence before he can leave even the ghost of a mark. Hot saline streaks down his cheeks, drips to the smooth ground and vanishes. Traceless. Is he real? Yes? No? Why—Why can't he…?

"Damn you. Damn you."

He scrabbles frantically, choking on his breath, on tears, on his own swollen, useless tongue; he claws and scratches; he screams; he rages. But the sands shift, they fall, they pour in, and everything is the same again.

Smooth. Pristine.

The dark figure watches.

* * *

The sounds pouring from his ghoulishly stretched mouth are not words, are not from any human language. Grunting and thrashing, he beats the water with his small, impotent fists. The ripples spread, crystal droplets fall, and then all melts back into stillness. 

It won't change. Why can't he change it?

The dark figure waits for him on the shore.

* * *

How long has he been here? There is no day or night. Just asleep and awake. 

And the dark figure…

* * *

He keeps his eyes closed as he wakes again. Maybe he'll never open them. Maybe he'll sleep forever. 

The dark figure makes no move.

* * *

He doesn't hunger, but he wants. A weeping emptiness fills his innards, but it is not hunger; it is just shy of that. Between crave and satiate. Between full and empty. He cannot desire. 

Does the dark figure feel the same?

"Say something. Please," he begs.

The dark figure says nothing.

* * *

"I hate you!" 

The dark figure remains silent.

* * *

Something has to change! Change is a fundamental certainty. It just is. 

He punches the dark figure. Flesh-bone to flesh-bone. _Crack_. Pain lances up through his arm, into his shoulder, where it sits in a dull, echoing pulse. The figure stumbles back, face still hidden within the shadows of its hood, and makes no move to defend itself when he lashes out at it again and again and again and again and…

Metallic-brine sliding down the back of his tongue, he drives all his agony, all his suffering into that cowering being.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

Over and over. Why won't you die? Why? Why? Just go away. Leave. Leave me.

Alone.

His anger-fuelled strength flees, draining sluggishly from his throbbing firsts, and he falls to his knees, blinded by his own grief. God, he's so tired, so very, very tired.

"I want to go home."

He curls up beside the motionless body of the dark figure and clutches the hem of its black coat as he falls asleep.

* * *

Wild, dizzy, bursting with rapture, degraded heart banging against the cage of his ribs, he holds his bruised and bloody fist to his chest, lovingly strokes the split skin over his swollen knuckles, and laughs. 

This is change!

Yes! Yes! Oh, God, yes!

His flesh isn't smooth and perfect. It hurts; it bruises; it _bleeds_. It shows his actions. Cause and effect.

Glorious, wondrous, beautiful change!

He pays no attention to the dark figure curled up and shivering a few feet away.

* * *

He wreaks change upon his body. Laughing and howling, he scratches away at his arms, his legs, chest and stomach. He claws back his skin, feeling it pile up in dirty clumps beneath his ragged nails. Deeper and deeper he digs. 

Sweet pain, harbinger of change, I invite you.

He isn't perfect! Look! He's flawed! Look!

Observe. Marvel.

Look. Look.

Then—oh, yes, sweet, sweet God, yes—color bursts across his vision in a glorious rill of deep, deep red. So vibrant. So rich in color, scent, taste, texture. Warm, wet, silky to touch. Metallic and salty to taste. And such a redredredred fragrance. Brilliant, glowing, color of a liquid heart. Unmistakable.

Look. Look.

I'm alive. I'm real. I bleed!

He shrieks his exultation to the flat sky, to the dead sea and unmarked sands.

"Sora! Stop it. Stop hurting yourself."

Arms close about him, strong hands grip his bird-frail wrists, and that familiar voice washes over him. He stills, heart a frantic creature in his chest, and mouths a name with trembling, compassion-starved lips, Riku?

Then, gifted with voice, galvanized by a wild, terrified hope, he twists within the others embrace.

"Riku! Riku!"

Before the dark figure can react, he grips the slick, slightly oily leather of the hood, jerks it back—and screams.

* * *

"No. No. No nononononono. You can't. You can't. I—You. Oh, God. Oh, God. Killed you. I did." 

The face—the face is as familiar as the voice, but horrible, nightmarish. His nightmare. Amber eyes that burn and chill.

"Not real. Not real. Killed you. Killed you."

He staggers down the beach, misses a step, falls, struggles to his feet and continues. Every time the dark figure moves to catch him he shrieks and bats it away.

Amber eyes. Swarthy skin. Such a cold, cold face. But that voice.

"Sora, please." That voice! How dare it use that voice!

"Shut up! Don't say anything," he says, slicing the air with the edge of his hand, panting and glaring. "You're not real. You can't trick me again."

Ansem. Riku. Ansem. Riku.

Ansem.

Why didn't it fight back? Another test? Another cruel joke? Another way to make him hurt?

He won't let the dark figure play mind-games with him anymore.

* * *

"Don't come near me," he hisses as he huddles in the salt-pepper sand. 

The dark figure stops itself from reaching out to him.

* * *

He's not going to open his eyes ever again. Never ever. Never ever. 

Then he won't have to see that lie watching him: the dark figure from his nightmares with the stolen voice of all his hopes.

* * *

Change doesn't matter. Nothing matters. 

Just want to go home now. Can I go home? Please?

He rocks back and forth, holding his legs close to his chest, and hums broken bits of swiftly vanishing lullabies.

I'll be good. I'll be perfect. Just let me go home. I'll never never never never ever ever ever ever be bad again.

Nothing makes sense. Thoughts unravel half-formed. Meaning falters, fails and fades away. Wake. Sleep. Wake. Sleep. Animal life without anything animal inside.

Maybe he hasn't woken up. Yes, this is a dream. A coma dream. A fever dream. Not real. Not real. Nothing here. He isn't here. It's all a delusion. Has to be. Yes, has to be. Right?

"Don't touch me. I'm not real," he tells the dark figure.

* * *

He laughs. 

The dark figure takes a step closer.

* * *

The smell of leather and sweat. 

"Just keep your eyes closed. I'm so sorry. Please believe me."

He doesn't struggle against the arms holding him close, doesn't tug at the length of cloth blocking his sight. Is this _him_? Is this—

"Riku?"

"I knew you would… I knew you would be upset if you saw me, saw me like this. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I never wanted…"

"Did _it_ see you? The liar?"

"Who? What?"

"I killed him, but he won't stay dead, Riku. He won't lie down."

He laces his fingers with his friend's and curls up against the other, cuddling into that warm, soft leather, that strong, firm body.

"I'm so sorry, Sora," the other repeats. "I knew you would. I knew."

He tilts his head back and lets the other find forgiveness in a trembling, guilty kiss.

Riku is here!

And darkness has replaced the dark figure.

* * *

End

* * *


End file.
